


Two Sides of a Vaguely Similar Coin [Redux]

by roysauce, ZombiBird



Series: Vague-verse [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (I'll be updating as things appear), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Allusions to Genocide, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gavin Reed Redemption, Gavin Reed is Bad at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, I accidentally made RK900 too sad so I gave him a dog to make myself feel better about it, I can't stop adopting obscure background characters help me, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Post-Game(s), Rating May Change, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Tina Chen & Gavin Reed Friendship, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Worldbuilding, a shit ton of, because I'm FASCINATED by how the world would go about handling things post-Revolution, like not just romantic ones he's bad at EVERY feeling that isn't general bitchiness, no beta we die like men, well this got dark fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roysauce/pseuds/roysauce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombiBird/pseuds/ZombiBird
Summary: In Which; RK900, struggling with his newfound deviancy, has The Best Idea (it’s questionable), Gavin Reed hates everything (but mostly himself), Connor is a baby hipster (don’t ask), Hank's just here for the free entertainment (who can blame him?), and Tina Chen would love it if her best friend could get his head out of his ass, thanks.[Notice: TSVSC updates much slower than my other fics, as it is by far my most ambitious project to date and I want to make sure everything is in order before posting. No matter how much time passes between updates, know that I haven't forgotten about TSVSC - I'm simply being a perfectionist.]
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Gavin Reed/RK900 Android(s), Tina Chen & Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Series: Vague-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764133
Comments: 28
Kudos: 59





	1. Introduction I - RK900 Timestamps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whether you're finding this fic for the first time or have been here since the original... 'sup.
> 
> I'm really happy to be back writing for this fandom again, as I've sorely missed it and all y'all. The last year-ish has been a wild ride for me personally between mental health issues and other IRL shenanigans and I'm still not at 100%, but I'd like to think I'm getting better. Unfortunately, I'm still not well enough to be able to give you guys a definitive update schedule (I'm absolutely god-awful at deadlines @-@), but here's hoping I'll be able to be at least semi-regular one day.

**[November 11 th, 2038]**

RK900 #313 248 317 – 87’s first memories are… less than favorable.

It awakens for the first time into a world of dark confinement, restricted to a space perfectly engineered to hold a being of its exact height and musculature, and nothing else. It can wiggle its toes, to some degree, and can open and close its eyes, but it feels its eyelashes skim the silicone mold that holds it if it tries to look up, and can’t breathe too deeply from its nose without its nostrils and chest meeting a similar sort of resistance.

There was some sort of technical error, surely. There is a protocol to be followed upon the activation of new androids—namely androids produced after 2030. Such protocol demands that an unimprinted android **[See Article #316*; Pre-Imprinted vs. Unimprinted, the Differences Between Default & Custom Androids] **such as RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 spend the first **[ ~~four~~ // ~~eight~~ // ~~twelve~~ // ~~twenty-four~~ //(forty-eight)] **hours **[//“longer adjustment periods…” “…establishing a basis…” “…properly understanding…” “…reactions to outside stimuli…” “…smoothing of simulated personality subroutines…” “…reducing instances of Uncanny Valley…” “…independent conclusions in the absence of human direction…”//*]** of operation familiarizing themselves with the world around them, would benefit best by spending time in human company and performing tasks in line with their intended operating purposes.

For a model such as RK900 #313 248 317 – 87, exposure to the **Investigation of a Suspected Deviant** , the **Negotiation/Interrogation of a Suspected Deviant** , or otherwise, the **Apprehension of a Suspected Deviant** would be ideal.

Standing idly in its packaging, it finds no stimuli to respond to, no problem to solve, no directive to complete.

Standing idly in its packaging, it learns nothing.

It remains in such a state for three days, seven hours, thirty-six minutes, and fifty-one seconds before it is found.

**[November 16 th, 2038]**

“He’s not a _puppy,_ Connor, he’s-” The late-to-middle-aged man **[Subject Identified: Anderson, Hank ; Male ; Age 53 ; Detroit Police Department ; Lieutenant]** hisses under his breath at the RK800 unit **[Serial:** **#313 248 317 – 51]** across from him, eyes hastily flitting over to where RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 is seated on the other side of the little waiting room, watching the exchange with undisguised curiosity.

The Lieutenant Anderson cuts himself off, makes an attempt to pitch his voice lower, but **[Enhance; Auditory Sensors; 100% - >** **120% Efficiency]** it does not stop RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 from hearing him, “-we’re not even sure if he’s a _person_.”

The look he receives from the RK800 is **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Expression Logged ; Offense]**

The Lieutenant Anderson’s own face shifts to **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Expression Logged ; Remorse]** , “ _Shit,_ don’t give me those eyes- I didn’t mean it like that, kid, just-” The Lieutenant Anderson looks to RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 again, “He’s… they _Deviated_ him, yeah, but they say he’s still running on all his factory settings, maybe even less than that. That’s… I’m not saying he can’t be helped, that he can’t _learn_ , but that’s a big responsibility, son, and you’re still figuring out what it means for _you_ to be human, never mind what it means to teach somebody else what it means for _them_ to be human.”

RK800 #313 248 317 – 51 shifts its attentions back to RK900 #313 248 317 – 87, expression **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Expression Not Found ; Further Data Points Required]** , “Until a more permanent housing solution is found, they’ll be put into a group home- nothing to do but sit there, _waiting_. The longer they go without finding something to imprint on, the harder it will be for them to find anything to imprint on at all.”

The Lieutenant Anderson spares RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 a glance, “He could get lucky. There are plenty of folks who’ve agreed to host androids, they could-”

RK800 #313 247 317 – 51 doesn’t allow The Lieutenant Anderson to finish **[Violation of Guideline #5c]** , “What if they don’t get lucky? Or, perhaps worse, what if they do? With all due respect, Hank, I believe it unfair to deny another android the possibility of acquiring a host family when there is another option.”

“I’m not made of money, kid, I can’t just-”

**[Violation of Guideline #5c]** “So long as you go through the proper channels, you’ll be reimbursed any expenses. They don’t need to stay forever, just… just long enough to learn what they need to.”

The Lieutenant Anderson pinches at the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and sighing, “I’d say he’s gonna be your responsibility… but that’d make me a jackass and a hypocrite, so just- just don’t make me do everything this time.” RK800 #313 247 317 – 51 furrows its brows, but does not appear **[Offended]** as that would directly oppose the small **[Smile]** twitching at its lips, **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Expression Not Found ; Further Data Points Required]**

RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 tries to mimic the RK800’s expression in hopes of coming to a greater understanding.

“Lieutenant, do you mean to suggest that you’re solely to thank for my own Deviancy?” **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Vocal Tone Identified* ; Fondness* ; (*Unsure: would benefit from additional Points of Reference)]**

The Lieutenant Anderson shrugs, “I mean, I’m pretty sure Sumo helped, but-”

RK800 #313 248 317 – 51 cuts The Lieutenant Anderson off by driving a firm **[Punch*]** into his shoulder.

**[*Hostile Action Detected ; _DIRECT VIOLATION OF THE FIRST LAW_ ]**

RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 stands quickly, the force of the motion sending the chair it had been occupying skidding backwards into the wall.

RK800 #313 248 317 – 51 steps towards RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 immediately, placing itself between RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 and The Lieutenant Anderson.

The RK800 bridges the gap between its central processor and RK900 #313 248 317 – 87’s, invading RK900 #313 248 317 – 87’s Mind Palace with a barrage of information.

A video of a male human **[Adolescent]** knocking into the side of a male human **[Child]** , pushing the child aside in an action that RK900 #313 248 317 – 87’s systems flag as **[Hostile]** , yet both humans are **[Smiling]** and **[Laughing]**.

A video of a female human **[Adult]** declaring, “ _I’m gonna fucking kill you!_ ” around a laugh with a contradicting auditory tone of **[Fondness]** as she chases after another female human of a similar age, who **[Shrieks]** with a **[Smile]**.

A video of a male human **[Adult]** straddling **[*Hostile Contact*]** a female human **[Adult]** on an unmade bed, digging his fingers into the woman’s waist with a broad **[Smile]** while the woman **[Laughs]** loudly with tears in her eyes.

RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 … does not understand.

“Situational variables.” The RK800 unit tells it, one hand outstretched towards RK900 #313 248 317 – 87, the other acting as a further separator from RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 and The Lieutenant Anderson **[Scanning… Cross-Referencing… Vocal Tone Identified ; Firm // Alternative Reading ; Command]** , “Given certain context, actions designated by default as hostile can be alternatively designated as expressions of endearment, or, otherwise, be actions or words spoken in jest between friends or family.”

The Lieutenant Anderson steps aside behind the RK800 unit, setting himself back within RK900 #313 248 317 – 87’s sights. “Is that what just happened here?” He asks as he looks between the two androids, then settles back on his heels, shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “Damn, Connor, they’re worse than you ever were.”

**[November 21 st, 2038]**

“It doesn’t need to be perfect,” RK800 #313 248 317 – 51 **[Registered Name ; Anderson, Connor // Registered Pronouns ; He/Him, They/Them]** tells RK900 #313 248 317 – 87 **[Placeholder ; RK900 “Nine” // Registered Pronouns ; He/Him (Default)]** one night as he’s going about setting the table for Lieutenant Anderson’s dinner.

RK900 looks down to his work, then back to Connor, questioning.

“Each piece of silverware doesn’t need to be exactly the same distance from the next piece or placed in a perfect vertical line. You’re overthinking it.”

_You’re overthinking it_.

One of Connor’s favorite things to say to him. Sometimes given context, sometimes inserted randomly into a conversation or tossed at RK900 from across the house with little to no explanation of what it is that RK900 is supposedly doing wrong.

“Not doing wrong.” Connor corrects RK900, subtly linked to his Palace as he is most days; enough to have a (general) idea of what RK900 is doing or thinking, “Just overthinking. If you wish to be precise, it isn’t my place to dissuade you,” Connor says, “but,” He continues, leaning across the kitchen table to prod a fork ever-so-slightly out of alignment, “A little inconsistency never hurt anybody.”

RK900 is certain that, given the proper resources, he could find an instance.

Connor just chuckles and turns up the corner of RK900’s perfectly folded napkin, pressing a crease into it that has no business being there.

RK900 is struck with a sudden urge to slap away the other android’s hands before they can further disrupt his task.

**[December 20 th, 2038]**

Lieutenant Anderson has a very strange sense of humor.

“What a first fucking facial expression!” He laughs at RK900, far more amused than RK900 thinks he ought to be at the situation, “God, I wish I had a camera.”

RK900 frowns, tempted to use his sleeve to rub away the… the _slime_ deposited on his face. He cannot, though, because then the saliva would be on his sleeve, and that would be equally unfavorable, furthermore-

“This is far from the first time I have emoted.” RK900 tells the Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Anderson blinks at him, and RK900 realizes, a bit belatedly, that those were the first words he’s ever spoken aloud.

“Mimicking others doesn’t count.” Connor says, entering from the kitchen with a paper towel folded in his palm. He crosses the living room, gently urging Sumo off the couch and away from RK900 before seating himself to wipe at the viscous liquid slicking the side of the other android’s face.

“How else am I to learn?” RK900 feels the need to defend himself as Connor wipes a glob of saliva from the corner of his jaw, the feeling of it slick enough to have his nose crinkling further against RK900’s own advisement.

Connor hums, “By being slurped across the face by Sumo, apparently.”

RK900 does not appreciate his counterpart’s use of the word _slurped_.

“That’s it,” Lieutenant Anderson says, decisive, “I’m getting the camera.”

**[February 4 th, 2039]**

“Damn, they pulled out all the stops on this place, didn’t they?” Lieutenant Anderson murmurs under his breath as he pulls slowly through the streets of the freshly established ‘New Jericho.’ It was about time, RK900 had decided a few weeks ago, when the opening of New Jericho was first announced, that he move into a residence of his own. It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy living with Connor and the Lieutenant, it is just that he no longer thinks he is learning as much as he could be. Thanks to some strings pulled by Connor’s associates in the Android Reformation Council, he had managed to worm his way onto a reasonable position within the waiting list.

It had taken little more than two and a half weeks for his application to be accepted and processed, and for an appropriate residence to be selected for him.

The Circle, the sub-division of New Jericho to which RK900 has been assigned, is a small roundabout on the outskirts of the community, hidden away from the prying eyes of outsiders by an encompassing strip of trees and shrubbery. It’s incredibly… private, which, RK900 supposes, is likely the point.

When he and Lieutenant Anderson pull into the little driveway connecting the unit 218B (RK900’s designated residential unit) to the roundabout, the door to unit 218A opens. A small, almost child-sized, adult-model android with ivory skin and tightly cropped black hair bounds down the steps, raising their hand in acknowledgement with a tight-lipped smile.

Not the most open expression, but they seem to be trying, at least.

“Welcome to The Circle,” They say once RK900 and Lieutenant Anderson have exited the vehicle, offering a hand to the Lieutenant. When he shakes it, they say, “Hank Anderson, I presume? Maxime Sloan.” Then turns to RK900 and prods at the edge of his Palace with their credentials in silent greeting.

**[Information Received ; MX600 #465 232 894 – 23 // Registered Name ; Sloan, Maxime // Registered Pronouns ; She/Her]**

It’s the first time RK900 has socialized with an android other than Connor, so he isn’t sure if such a greeting is standard or not.

“I’m the Resident Assistant designated to The Circle,” Maxime tells them, sinking her hands into the pockets of her (incredibly) oversized sweatshirt. She glances down to the small wheeled suitcase at RK900’s side, “That all you have?”

RK900 shifts on his feet, “Yes.” Then amends, glancing to the 2009 Harley Davidson Sportster hitched to the back of the Lieutenant’s car, “This, and…”

Maxime lets out an appreciative whistle, “Nice, man.”

“I am merely borrowing it,” RK900 tells her, glancing pointedly towards Lieutenant Anderson.

“And if you crash her, I’ll end you, kid.” The Lieutenant tells RK900, not for the first time.

RK900 is struck with the urge to roll his eyes.

* * *

“-the locks are specially attuned to your Palace’s data signature, so you’re the only one who can get in and out without credentials,” Maxime is telling RK900 later, after Lieutenant Anderson has left, as the pair climbs the covered stairwell leading to the second floor of the unit. When they reach the door, she digs a hand into her hoodie pocket, pulling out a collection of lanyards with little cylindrical drives hanging from them, “Standard unit comes with three dupes for friends and family,” She explains, plugging one of the drives into a circular port on the door handle, “If, for whatever reason, you need more made, let me know so I can send out for extra copies.”

The little light beside the door turns green, the lock disengaging with a heavy click and affirmative beep. Maxime pulls out the drive, hand falling to turn the handle and push the door open. She steps inside, RK900 following after her, and hangs the lanyards from a coat hook by the entryway when she knows RK900 is watching.

The unit is small, but not necessarily in a bad way.

The entryway opens up into a small living room that blends into a kitchen area to the right, divided by a half-wall that doubles as a breakfast bar. A little further back, off to the left, is a door to another room and a staircase leading up to the third floor (which is also a part of RK900’s unit; unit 218A being comprised of the basement and first floor, and unit 218B being comprised of the second and third floor). On the opposing side of the staircase is a sliding door leading out to a small balcony – empty, save for a plastic deck chair and a small matching side table.

Overall, the furnishing is sparse – bordering on lacking – and relatively colorless, reminding RK900 of the cheap truckstop motel rooms he’s seen depicted in various television programs and movies.

“All of your bills for the next six months have been prepaid, and you’ll receive an allowance of two-hundred fifty dollars a week,” Maxime says as she steps aside, allowing RK900 to trail into the unit ahead of her. Though her tone of voice hasn’t shifted much, her speech pattern is lacking in its previous casual sort of candor, shifting into something more distantly professional as she delivers her speech, “After the allotted six months, should you still find yourself with no reliable source of income, you can appeal your case to the New Jericho Board of Funding for re-enrollment into our financial aid system.

“Registration paperwork is over there-” Maxime gestures vaguely towards a stack of papers on the living room’s glass-top coffee table, “-for whenever you’re ready to declare your identity officially. Technically you can do it all in your Palace, but a lot of the ‘droids here seem to prefer hard copies so,” Another vague hand wave, “whatever floats your boat, I guess.

“You can hit me up on my direct line anytime with questions or concerns, but if you’ve got to remove your LED for any reason, or if your wireless communications go down, you can find the number for both my direct line and my cell over there-” Maxime informs him as she tosses her chin towards a phone docked on the kitchen counter, a yellow sticky note beside it, “-all else fails, I live below you so, just… I dunno, yell really loud if you need something?” She offers with a shrug and a lazy, lopsided smile.

**[February 7 th, 2039]**

Living on his own is… enlightening. If only in the sense that it allows for RK900 to learn of a new emotion.

Boredom.

At Lieutenant Anderson’s, at least, RK900 had books to read, various records to sift through, chores to do during the day to keep himself occupied.

Here, RK900 has very few options for stimulation.

“You, my freckled friend, need a hobby.” His downstairs neighbor informs RK900 when he tells her as much. She’d been working in the yard when he’d ventured down to check his mailbox – a habit he’s gotten into, despite having absolutely no reason to be receiving mail – and had asked after how he’d been settling in, “Or a job,” She amends, and RK900 can’t be sure, but he thinks she’s trying to clear out a spot for a garden. It’s a bit too cold for it, RK900 thinks, and the ground is almost definitely frozen, but she seems to be enjoying herself, “Or both.”

“A hobby.” RK900 repeats, not quite a question.

“It’s, like, the first thing they tell you in those little Deviancy Counseling pamphlets,” Maxime says, not looking away from her work, “ _Idle hands are the devil’s plaything_ , and all that- you _did_ see the pamphlets, didn’t you? There were only about fifty of them scattered about my unit when I moved in.”

Fifty seems like an exaggeration. There had only been three pamphlets tucked into RK900’s bedside table, and only one of them had actually covered Deviancy as a main topic.

( _Deviancy & You ; Adjusting to Autonomy _had not been nearly as enlightening of a read as RK900 had been hoping it would be.)

Taking RK900’s extended silence as omission of a reply, Maxime continues, “But yeah, hobbies. Or even just interests. I dunno if it’s an android thing or just a My Friend Group thing, but every ‘droid I know has one or two things that they’re hyper-fixated on to the point of near obsession.” Sitting back on her heels, Maxime waves a hand towards her maybe-garden, “Case in point.” Then, finally looking up at him, “You just gotta give it some time- find something you can be passionate about.”

**[February 10 th, 2039]**

Finding something to be passionate about, RK900 finds, is easier said than done.

—Which is what promptly leads RK900 to make his very first Impulsive Decision.

He buys a dog.

Though evidence would suggest that RK900 is not particularly fond of dogs, that doesn’t stop him from wandering into a pet store to purchase a bag of dog food for Sumo (he had been on his way to the Anderson residence when he’d received a message from Connor, asking if he’d mind terribly picking some up on the way) and walking out with a palm-sized puppy **[Breed ; Shiba Inu // Coloration ; Cream // Sex ; Female // Age ; Eight Weeks // Vaccinations ; None]** gumming at his fingers.

Lieutenant Anderson, understandably, is none-too-thrilled with this development.

“You can’t just buy a living creature on a whim, kid,” The man in question tells RK900 firmly when he arrives at the Anderson residence a half hour later than scheduled with his new companion in tow.

RK900 frowns, watching as, on the other side of the living room, his small friend tries to engage Sumo in play time. He hadn’t intended to actually _buy_ an animal when he’d walked into the store—he had intended only to browse, maybe return at a later date after an informed decision could be made—but the puppy had looked positively miserable in the too-little glass box that the store had been keeping her trapped in, and RK900 could not in good consciousness leave her there knowing full well how unpleasant being confined in such a way was.

After a long stretch of silence, Lieutenant Anderson sighs, long and heavy, sounding **[Resigned]** as he stands and says, “If you’re gonna keep her, you’re gonna keep her right.” Then, grabbing his car keys from the side-table, “The clinic I take Sumo to accepts walk-ins. We can take her there, make sure she gets all her shots, and then hit up the surplus store downtown.”

* * *

RK900 stares at the veterinary paperwork for a long time—specifically, the line that reads _patient name—_ before filling in _Dove_. He doesn’t know why he chooses the name, only that it’s the first word to come to mind when he looks at his new little friend.

**[February 13 th, 2039]**

Three days in, and RK900 is not sure whether he has adopted a dog or a human child.

For a puppy with a heart condition – “A slight heart murmur,” the vet tech had told RK900 and Lieutenant Anderson as she’d removed her stethoscope from her ears, “It’s small, so it will probably fade away, but it’s something to keep an eye on.” – Dove is remarkably energetic.

It takes the little puppy all of three hours to decide that RK900’s Cyberlife jacket is Hers now, as is the leftmost spot on the living room couch. The floppy racoon plush toy picked out for her by Lieutenant Anderson (that is approximately three times her size, much to Lieutenant Anderson’s amusement), is her Absolute Favorite Thing, and she cannot exist without it. Furthermore, stairs are Incredibly Fun and the upstairs area of RK900’s unit is Very Exciting.

—RK900 would not say that his life is necessarily more fulfilling now that he has a small white blur sprinting laps around his unit at two in the morning, but it is definitely much more stimulating. RK900’s unit feels lived in now, no longer like a show home – and he finds he likes it much better this way.

**[February 27 th, 2039]**

“I am thinking of accepting Captain Fowler’s offer.” RK900 says one day as he walks the inside perimeter of The Circle with Connor, Dove pulling on the thin black leash tethering her to him. (It had snowed last night, and so his small friend is Very Exited this morning. Snow is another one of her Favorite Things)

“You don’t think it’s too soon?” His predecessor asks, brows creasing slightly.

Captain Fowler of the Detroit Police Department had offered RK900 a Detective’s position in the newly formed Android Crimes division of the department some weeks ago. Initially, RK900 had declined, as he’d wanted to spend a bit more time acquainting himself with his newfound autonomy. The man had not been offended—rather, he’d said he understood, that his offer would remain, waiting to be accepted if or when RK900 was ready.

“It might be,” RK900 says as Dove shoves her face into the four inch tall snow drift lining the freshly shoveled sidewalk, curled tail bobbling back and forth fervently, “But I am growing…” RK900 pauses, searching for the word that best describes his plight. Finally settles on, “…restless.” Dove, as entertaining as she can be, is also an incredibly smart dog. After RK900 had downloaded the proper references, it had taken all of three days for her to learn the so-called ‘basics.’ This is not a bad thing, mind—it merely means that she does not keep him so occupied as he’d expected her to.

“Besides,” RK900 continues, “I believe that I will learn fastest in a human rich environment. I am…” A pause, “…content living here, but…”

“It’s okay to say that you’re bored.” Connor assures him, briefly laying his hand over RK900’s forearm. RK900’s eyes find his small friend, now entertaining herself with a stick she’d found buried beneath the snow, “-or lonely.”

“I do not understand why I am.” RK900 enjoys the independence of living on his own, but he… he misses living with Lieutenant Anderson and Connor. Yes, he visits them often, and, yes, he has Dove—stimulating company in her own right—and he would never wish to return her, but.

“You seek human companionship,” Connor finishes for him, easily following RK900’s thought process despite being nowhere near his Palace, “It’s a perfectly normal thing to want.” His predecessor offers him a soft smile—RK900 has yet to figure the nuances needed to form such an expression, himself—and says, “I’ll speak with Captain Fowler tomorrow and forward the necessary paperwork to you.” A pause, the practically inaudible sound of Connor playing with the coin in his pocket, “About the potential partner we’d talked about before, are you really sure you want to be paired with-”

“Detective Reed?” RK900 finishes for Connor, feeling ever-so-slightly amused.

Detective Gavin Reed is something of a point of fascination for RK900. He has never met the man, but he has heard stories (and complaints—many, many complaints) about him from Lieutenant Anderson on more than one occasion. Though RK900 has never said as much aloud, he’s drawn quite the number of parallels between Lieutenant Anderson and Detective Reed—align those with the number of parallels that can be drawn between RK900 and his predecessor, and, well…

From the standpoint of human psychology, one can only spend so much time in the company of another before they begin to subconsciously emulate mannerisms and emotional tendencies, including, but not limited to likes, dislikes, opinions and ways of thinking and behaving. Perhaps Deviancy is not a mutation of code, but, rather, another level of adaptive programming- free will and emotional responses originally derived from adapting to humans and their own strong ideals of individuality.

Now, take into account the already proven success of pairing an android such as Connor with an overly-emotional human such as Lieutenant Anderson—evidence suggests that such results _might_ be able to be replicated, so long as RK900 is paired with a suitable human partner.

Enter one volatile, android-hating, Detective Gavin Reed.

It’s a weakly founded hypothesis, yes, (he would hardly call one success particularly compelling) but one that RK900 would not mind investigating further. It is not as if he has anything better to be doing with his time.

“Yes,” RK900 says, “I am sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm kind of freaking out about posting after so long, so... feedback would be lovely, if you have the time.  
>  ~~validate me plz~~


	2. Introduction II - Gavin Reed Timestamps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warnings this chapter include: Allusions to Genocide & Casual Mentions of Alcoholism

**[November 11 th, 2038]**

Gavin knows—he _knows_ —they’re not human, that they don’t actually _feel anything_ but—

At a glance, it all just looks so…

So...

Gavin’s jaw is clenched so tight it _hurts_ , but the pain doesn’t really register. The winter air beats against him like needles of ice—a stinging, burning sort of cold that goes right through the riot gear he’d been ordered into hours earlier. His hands are stiff but shaking; white-knuckled fingers beneath regulation gloves flex around the grip of his pistol, index finger twitching against the trigger-guard.

His job is just to hold the line, but there really isn’t a line to hold—not now that the military is storming the Deviant camp, guns hot on entry. Last they heard, none of the plastic freaks were even _armed_ , so it’s not like they would have gotten far, anyways, had they decided to try something stupid.

So, Gavin knows—he _knows_ —that they’re not human, that they don’t actually _feel anything_ , but—

When he closes his eyes, focuses on nothing but the sounds of their panicked screams ripping through the night air, he can’t tell the difference.

* * *

The call comes through _after_ the camp’s been cleared—because of course it fucking does.

Warren is granting them amnesty.

Fucking _amnesty_.

* * *

Tina abandoned the line halfway through the sweep and still hasn’t come back, so Gavin goes looking for her as soon as he’s able to. It takes a little while—takes following various impressions in the snow that may or may not have belonged to her shoes—but he finds her, eventually, doubled over in a nearby alleyway, forearms braced against ice-slicked brick, head bowed.

Vomit stains the snow at her feet; frothy yellow bile intermixed with whatever was left in her stomach.

Gavin doesn’t know what to do.

(The Tina Chen Gavin knows doesn’t do _feelings_ —at least, not her own. She does crude humor and impish fuckery and, _sometimes_ , if she hasn’t had her coffee yet, the kind of wise, vaguely insightful advice that’s usually reserved for either the elderly or the clinically insane.)

He doesn’t know what to do.

He settles on doing his job, “Warren called it off.”

A sound rises in the back of Tina’s throat—quick, sharp; halfway between a wail and a laugh, “A bit fucking late for that,” She sounds out, voice breaking halfway through.

Her hands curl into fists against the brick. She breathes in deep through her nose as she pushes away, brings an arm up to wipe at her mouth as she turns to him, anguish etched into every line on her face, “We were _wrong_.” She tells him when she meets his gaze, eyes bloodshot and puffy.

Gavin doesn’t ask what she’s talking about—doesn’t need to.

Privately, he thinks that maybe they were, but he can’t bring himself to agree.

Isn’t ready to face what it means if she’s right.

**[November 12 th, 2038]**

Sometime after 2 A.M., they’re finally allowed to leave.

Gavin hitches a ride back to the DPD parking lot in Tina’s squad car, his best and only friend oddly taciturn beside him. Because she’s Tina, Gavin keeps expecting her to break through the quiet with a joke—keeps _hoping_ that she will, just so they can have something normal—but it never comes.

It’s the loudest silence Gavin’s ever known.

Tina doesn’t say a word when they pull into the parking lot. Just puts the car in park and reaches to her left to unlock the passenger side door. Gavin doesn’t really know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything—just pushes his door open and climbs out.

“—Gav?” Tina calls as he’s turning to close the door, and Gavin almost doesn’t hear her over the wind in his ears. When he meets her eyes, she’s leaning partway over the passenger seat to peer up at him. For a moment she just looks at him, brows creased in a rare moment of concern. Finally, she eases out a breath, “Just… go straight home, alright?”

This is usually where they’d joke—where Gavin would tell her that she’s not his fucking mother (empty words; he wished his mother cared so much), and she’d tell him that somebody’s gotta bite that bullet, or something along those lines. He’d call her a bitch, but he’d do like she asked anyways, probably text her a passive aggressive picture of his crummy apartment when he got home just to give her a hard time. Tina will either reply with something snappy or a picture of her own, and neither of them talk about it, but they both know she likes knowing he got home safe. ~~~~

It doesn’t feel right to do any of that, though, so Gavin just says, “Sure.”

Tina opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else– closes it before she can. After a too-long silence she nods at him, somewhere between solemn and stoic. Gavin thinks it’s as close to a goodbye as he’s going to get, so he closes the door.

Tina puts the squad car back in drive, pulls out of the parking lot.

Gavin watches until she rounds the corner, out of sight, then turns to plod towards his truck. 

* * *

When he gets back to his apartment, he texts Tina a picture of his cat asleep on the radiator. He stares at his phone for a good five minutes waiting for her inevitable ‘ _hot pussy_ ’ comment, but it never comes.

He drinks until he blacks out.

**[November 13 th, 2038 — November 20th, 2038]**

Everything seems to fall apart in the wake of Warren’s address.

Those who had already been protesting the existence of androids grow louder than ever, outraged by the current developments and what it will mean for the job market. Between those who had already lost their jobs and livelihood to the automated work force, the thousands of androids misplaced with the clearing of the Cyberlife tower (which is still very much in progress; local news stations say they’re pulling more androids from their packaging every day) and the Declaration of Sentience officially prohibiting the ownership of androids, homelessness is at an all-time high.

Detective work falls to the wayside in place of simply trying to maintain the peace.

Without the androids who’d been working under the DPD (answering calls, managing dispatch, directing the flow of casework, filing reports, etc.) it’s all hands on deck at the precinct. After the third day, when it becomes apparent that the DPD isn’t going to be getting their shit together anytime soon, the station starts accepting volunteers. It’s incredibly crowded and very hectic and, Gavin is sure, a _huge_ security risk having so many civilians up in the DPD’s business, but they don’t exactly have many options.

Everyone with a badge is a beat cop now, to some degree.

Tina and Gavin never talk about what happened that night.

**[November 21 st, 2038 — December 1st, 2038]**

Slowly, things begin to stabilize.

The Deviant leader, Markus, officially forms the Android Reformation Council. Backed by the Bautista Corporation—parent company of Bautista Realty and owners of over half of Detroit—the ARC begins construction efforts on a new, all-android community on the city’s outskirts. The aptly named New Jericho is an ambitious project – aiming to house, at _minimum_ , ¾ of the displaced android population, the community is hoping to be able to begin accepting residents as soon as next month.

Gavin doesn’t know how he feels about any of it.

The first android to be employed by the DPD in an official capacity is a feminine model (don’t ask Gavin which one—distinguishing between product lines and models has never been his strong suit) named Laelia with frizzy dark brown hair, ebony skin, and a gap between her two front teeth. Stationed at the reception desk, it brings order back to the precinct with a sharp yet bubby brand of wit and a blunt, no-nonsense work ethic that betrays the beatific smile permanently affixed to its face.

Gavin doesn’t go out of his way to be rude, but he doesn’t bother trying to be nice, either.

He continues to, adamantly, Not Think About It.

**[December 2 nd, 2038 — December 13th, 2038]**

Gavin’s gotten very good at Not Thinking About It.

**[December 14 th, 2038]**

Anderson’s android returns to the precinct on a Tuesday.

Gavin can’t remember who said it first or how the news got out, but they’ve known for a while now that Fowler was working on getting the plastic prick a place on the force, so his sudden reappearance isn’t exactly a surprise.

The curly haired, _Hipster Chic_ looking motherfucker in tortoise shell glasses, an oversized knit cardigan and a bowtie leaning against Anderson’s desk, however— _that_ , is a surprise.

Gavin freezes, doesn’t know what to do, so he just stands there like a fucking idiot, and he’s never been more grateful for his resting bitch face than he is the moment the thing notices him and glances up from whatever conversation it’d been having with Anderson, “Detective Reed,” It says, smiling; congenial—like the last time they saw each other Gavin hadn’t tried to kill it, didn’t end up getting his ass kicked and waking up with a partial concussion and a crick in his neck, “Good morning.”

Gavin’s still-wounded Pride lurches in his gut, takes ahold of his tongue, and spits it’s venom.

**[December 15 th, 2038 – February 3rd, 2039]**

The DPD officially announces the formation of the Android Crimes Unit.

Like Connor’s return, the ACU has been in the works for a while; a not-quite-secret within the DPD and certain smaller circles of mainstream media. The ACU is to be made up of partnered pairs of detectives—each pair comprised of one android and one detective—so as to assure that everybody is properly represented. So far, there are only two members—Anderson and his little pet—but Fowler is hoping to add a few more pairs of detectives before the new year is through. Unfortunately, with the limited number of police-qualified androids in circulation, it’s been increasingly difficult to find androids willing to fill the open positions.

(Apparently, save for Connor, every eligible android in Detroit—and there aren’t many; only eleven, by Fowler’s last count—has declined the DPD’s invitation, opting instead to pursue other things for the time being.)

Given time, should the ACU prove to be a worthwhile investment, the number of restrictions on android models will lessen, allowing for a more diverse android workforce within law enforcement, but, for now, those in power have agreed that they would rather only androids who were specifically designed for field-work to be allowed work in the field.

There’s a lot of confusion regarding how the U.S. would even go about integrating domestic models into the police force, once such a time comes to pass.

Would they need to attend the police academy like human recruits? If so, for how long? Their memories, both muscle and otherwise, are practically eidetic—is there even a need for them to take part in any kind of specialized education beyond maintaining a standard of fairness?

Thinking about it for too long makes Gavin’s brain hurt.

He opts not to.

**[February 4 th, 2039 – February 28th, 2039]**

It’s getting increasingly difficult to forget.

Alcohol helps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, the camp that Gavin was at in the beginning of the chapter wasn't Markus' camp. In the game, Perkins tells Markus something along the lines of, "There are no more camps, you're the only ones left," insinuating that they'd already gone and 'decommissioned' all of the deviants in the other camps, so, yeah, in case you're confused... that's what's going on there. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated if you've the time :)


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